Conspiracy X
by King Reepicheep
Summary: When the Archbishop of Notre-Dame witnesses a murder he goes to Holmes for help, but Holmes doesn't do murder cases...conspiracies however are an entirely different story. Inspired by a cold case from the 1880's. Dedicated to Victor Hugo and Vasily Kalinnikov


**Conspiracy X**

Dedicated to Victor Hugo (and Vasily Kalinnikov)

**Chapter One: The Man on Pont de l'Archevêché**

On a January evening, in the bitterness of winter, Notre-Dame, the lady of the Ile de la Cite, the island that she sat upon was busy sleeping.

The stone face of Saint Denis rose to the occasion of being the watchful eye along the Seine River, which was calm, pleasant and unmoving, like the people of the street. These people, who were peasants, hung around their fire-pits and shop windows, attempting to some degree to find warmth, or seek shelter, some place of security.

The Archbishop, and caretaker of Notre-Dame, Pierre Lachapelle blew out a candle. He wore a brown robe with a white tunic underneath and a black satchel over his left shoulder. Inside this satchel was his collection for the poor. Pierre was an honest man of good standing and an optimistic outlook. His face was worn but beautifully crafted, as if he were standing next to Marcel near the Virgin outside on the eastern most portal. A short beard that extended to the base of the neck and a bit of hair that was curly, but short, so it looked straight. He had the eyes of a saint, the heart of a lion, the movement of a dove, and the willingness of a lamb.

"The flame refuses to die, like the Lord it shines in darkness and gives hope to those in despair." He said.

Pierre was standing in a long corridor, flanked to his left by clear story above him were ribs. He took a deep breath and exhaled. The candle light burned out. The Archbishop placed the candle back in its place along the wall. The good man then continued walking in a slow but thoughtful pace, as if he were dictating a sermon to the sculptures and stain glass windows.

_"Walk always in the light and the Lord shall always see and be with you." _He thought. He reached another candle, passing through starlight reflections that were cast about on the floor as he did so. The cool draft of the place could be felt in his toes, which were underneath his relatively thin shoe.

If one were to look hard enough, one can make out a word on a wall near a door that lead to the Archbishop's chambers. Inscribed as if by fingernail or worn chisel from long ago was this word, _Ankh!_

Normally, this word would mean a sense of unity, a sense of pride, humility, bourgeois status. Now it stands as a scar of this stone woman, who is ashamed of it. Behaving like a defiled creature, tattooed as a harlot, Notre-Dame wished so badly to be rid of that horrid word. A word which gave herself and the people who resided in her the misery of the world, which was difficult to bare, and lethal in the eyes of vagabonds, poets, and enamored archbishops.

Pierre walked towards this cursed wall and ascended a staircase to his tower of seclusion where he hung his cap, removed his slippers, and went to bed.

Three hours of sleep had passed before Lachapelle had woken up again, this time by the splash of water. Getting up, Pierre, who ignored his slippers, but forgetting the fact that the stone floor, despite the rug that separated his feet from it, was deathly cold, looked out his small window.

Looking out across the sleeping city, the moonlight shone upon the Seine River, producing crystals of wealth along the water, as if looking inside an open treasure chest. A man on Pont de l'Archevêché was seen standing near the railing. A light flickered near his head, he was smoking a cigarette. This man was wearing black, as if he were painted in it. Pierre couldn't make out any other details from the small window except for one, there was a reason that this man was smoking a cigarette.

Inhaling the smoke through his mouth and out his nose, this man in black was dressed in a trench coat made of wool. He had the disposition of a raven, his back was not straight, even when he stood erect. The width of the shoulders were undefined, as if feathers adorned him, but it was simply the wear and literal tears on his trench coat. His pants were relatively shabby as if he had gotten them out of a lesser known tailor who's main line of work required a bit of recycling. A top his head was a black hat, which blended in with his black hair and olive skin. The light of the burning ash of the cigarette made you only able to see his mouth. His lips were thin, as if he were from the southern parts of Italy originally.

The man in black looked out over the Seine, taking a moment to admire the view. The lights of burning candles, the sound of trotting stage coaches from three blocks away that were carrying young bachelors who in three hours were to be married by a simple act of circumstance. It was three in the morning.

Pierre got dressed, walked outside of the cathedral, via the Red Door on the south side of the building and met this man on the bridge.

This man, who was at this point, finished with his cigarette, produced another. A lighter in his hand, he flicked it and ignited the slender stick of tar.

The burning of the paper, the release of the substances reminded Pierre of someone that he knew well.

"Who are you?" Pierre asked, he shivered a bit, for he only had put on his robes and a very thin fall jacket.

The man made no acknowledgement, instead, he just turned his attention to Paris.

"Excuse me," Pierre said, voice a bit louder, "but what are you doing out here at this time of night?"

"A man cannot take a stroll and smoke a cigarette anymore?" The man asked with a bit of a smile.

Pierre looked very carefully at him and noticed this man's shoes. They were a bit off as if this man were to normally use a cane to support himself, he was presently placing one hand on the railing.

"Why don't you come inside Monsieur," Pierre said, "you can warm up, get some rest, and wherever it is you're going, perhaps I can point you in the right direction."

"I am staying right here Abbot."

Pierre nodded, turned back and went back the way he came, he walked slowly, listening to any sort of movement. The man whispered something uneducable.

"What?" Pierre asked once the man was finished, stopping a moment and turning towards him. The man looked back, cigarette to his mouth he said:

"He therefore turned to mankind only with regret. His cathedral was enough for him."

The man took several strides towards Pierre, limping to the left as his left shoe twisted to the right. He smiled and with his free hand placed it on Pierre's right shoulder. He supported himself and blew some smoke in his face.

"Goodnight Monsieur." He said as he slowly turned away and walked towards the city.

"Why don't you come with me," Pierre asked, "it seems like you've been walking an awful lot lately."

"I cannot come in to your church sir," the man replied, "for judgment will be placed upon me."

"Nonsense!" Pierre said, walking towards the man and supporting him with his arm. "You shall be safe from ridicule here my son, but one question does puzzle and disturb me greatly."

"What's that?"

"Did you hear a splash of water by chance?" Pierre asked.

"That dear Archbishop, was a quail."

"A quail you say?"

The man nodded, "A quail, it was given to me by my father, who said that it was to bring me luck."

"Has it?" Pierre asked a bit interested as they walked through the Red Door.

"No," the man answered.

"Why is that?"

"Because," he said, "quails are simply birds and don't know what luck is."

Pierre nodded and smiled a bit as they progressed into the dormitories where appetencies, visiting monks, and friars would sleep. At the moment, Notre-Dame had one friar. He was under Lachapelle's wing, his name was François Guillory.

A humble man in the nature of Pierre, François was interested in the realm of science and literature, particularly the work of poetry and the work of astronomical discovery. François was sleeping in his bedclothes, warm and comfortable in his bed when Pierre and the man in black with the cigarettes entered.

"François," Pierre whispered, for the Archbishop was going to wake him up anyway due to the movement of the rather squeaky and obnoxious door. "You are going to have a guest tonight."

François turned over a moment, looked the man over and nodded, "Take the bed over there." He said pointing to the other side of the room. The man slowly and still limping made his way over and sat on the bed.

"I will leave you two alone." Pierre said and shut the door.

"So," François said, "what is your name Monsieur?"

"Call me Monsieur Châteaupers." The man said.

Francois nodded, making a mental note in his head and went back to sleep.

Châteaupers laid on the bed, not even bothering to remove his shoes or slip into night clothes as he slept with a smile on his face.

* * *

><p><strong>Three Days Later...<strong>

* * *

><p>Holmes sat by the fireplace and read case notes. It was four thirty in the morning. Watson was lost in his dreams and Mrs. Hudson was in her apartment three blocks down the road.<p>

Smoking a pipe and sitting in a velvet chair amidst the chaos of his work, Holmes scanned his findings, particularly this short one:

_Moriarty slain. The game of chess is over. _

He pondered his sentence, especially the last part, 'This game of chess is over'. Holmes, after his last encounter with the infamous Professor, was considering retirement and letting Watson take over the cases that came through the door, while he would quietly sit, read his paper, smoke his pipe, and give deduction advice as he always did.

Holmes sat his book down and walked towards the window, looking out onto the street as if he no longer recognized it.

The world was changing, and soon his work would be considered obsolete by police departments, who in truth were getting more intelligent and more resourceful. Inspector or rather, Sergeant, G. Lestrade, who had promoted three years ago by Police Constable Richards, had been relatively successful on his own without Holmes' expertise, which was usually a requirement before. Moriarty changed all that.

Before, Holmes, although very much into middle age, had the spirit of a young bachelor in terms of agility and speed. Now, he looked much older, as if his age of fifty-nine had finally caught up with his face. _The Roman Veristic Man_ of the first century B.C. was sculpted onto him. Two wrinkles above the brow, a slightly more defined cheekbone, small bags under his eyes as if from a year's lack of sleep, and rather off-putting disposition, as if he had resentment with everyone and everything. This was the new face of Sherlock Holmes.

At precisely six forty-seven, the sun rose. Holmes still stood at the window, thinking of his life, particularly the end of it, as Mrs. Hudson entered the flat.

She wore a blue dress with a white apron, gray hair tied up in a bun and if one did not know of her employment with Holmes, the person would assume that she was his mother.

"Hello Mr. Holmes." She said as cheerfully as she could on a Monday.

"Good morning Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock replied rather solemnly, as if there was nothing left to live for.

"Trouble sir?" Hudson asked as she walked into the kitchen to prepare some breakfast.

"If by trouble you mean mental torture then yes, I have a great deal of it." Holmes said still unmoving from his place.

"Well," Hudson said as she placed a silver tray with three cups of tea, sugar, crème, and etceteras on the dining table. "perhaps you need to see a psychologist."

Holmes smiled a bit as Hudson knocked gently on Watson's door.

"Doctor Watson," she said in a motherly voice, as if trying to awaken her child to get ready for school. "it's morning, time to get up!"

Movement in the bedroom. The putting on of a suit, adjustment of a tie, the placement of a hat, the opening of a door.

John H. Watson came into the room with a brown cutaway formal coat, a white dress shirt, a black tie, and matching trousers and fedora. His shoes, which he kept by the fireplace near the door, were already polished and shined.

"Heading somewhere Watson?" Holmes asked, still unmoving.

"Yes," Watson answered, "the University of London called, they wish to speak to me about a certain matter."

"Oh will you stay for breakfast Doctor?" Hudson asked, for she had already prepared a serving for him.

"Why it would be an insult if I didn't," Watson replied with a smile as he put on his shoes, "I have time to eat and have a cup of tea before I have to go. I shall only be gone for about two maybe three hours at the most so I will be back by lunch." He said.

"Oh wonderful!" Hudson said and returned to her duties in the kitchen.

When Watson was done with his shoes he walked over to Holmes to see what the matter was.

"Holmes," Watson said, "why are you staring out the window, is something going on?"

"A man cannot stare out the window simply to enjoy the sunrise?" Holmes asked.

"Well no, it's just usually when you do stand near the window, there is something of particular importance going on and usually you will ask me to deduce your observations of whatever you saw." Watson replied as he too looked out the window.

A coach pulled up across the street. A man in brown stepped out, paid the fee, left a generous tip and rushed across the street as if his life depended upon it.

"Watson," Holmes said, "get the door for this man of the church."

"Man of the church!" Watson said with a smile and a laugh as usual when he didn't believe Holmes' deductions of people's achieved status. "How could you possibly know that he is a man of the-"

A knock at the door.

Watson walked over and opened it. Holmes finally removed himself from his window and stood near the centre of the room.

Pierre Lachapelle entered. In his hand was a note.

"Monsieur Holmes," Pierre said, his French accent a little bit overpowering, "apologizes in advance if I start speaking French." He said.

Holmes nodded, "That's quiet alright Archbishop."

"Archbishop?" Watson asked aloud.

"Oui," Pierre answered, "Pierre Lachapelle, Archbishop of Notre-Dame de Paris at your service Doctor Watson."

"What business do you have?" Holmes asked as he engaged his pipe and smoked it.

"I received this note yesterday." Pierre said. "A man by the name of Châteaupers wrote it. He gave it to my colleague François Guillory just before he left. When I read it, I had no idea what it meant so I came to you."

Pierre handed Holmes the note. It was a simple phrase.

"I'm sorry," Holmes said, "but you'll have to take this matter to the Parisian Police."

"I've tried that Monsieur, but they will not believe me. They say I'm crazy, that I'm making this up for publicity's sake."

"Are you?" Holmes asked.

"No!" Pierre shouted, "I'll admit, attendance has been down lately but I would never use something as heinous as this for personal attention. Do you take me for a corrupt womanizer?"

"Apologies Monsieur Lachapelle, but I simply don't do murder cases." Holmes said.

"Murder case?" Watson asked. He looked at Pierre, "What happened?"

"A few nights ago I was dousing the candles like I always do," Pierre said, "then as I went to bed, I heard a splash and a man standing on the bridge, Pont de l'Archevêché, he was smoking a cigarette. I met him, asked his business and he said that he was just taking a walk. I asked him about the noise and he said: 'He therefore turned to mankind only with regret. His cathedral was enough for him.' I then took him to a spare bed and he left the next morning with this note."

"As I have already stated," Holmes said, "I don't do murder cases."

"How do you know it's a murder case Holmes?" Watson asked.

"Because," Holmes replied, "there's an anagram written there as well as a signature. Those two things don't normally end well."

"They certainly don't." Watson said agreeing with Holmes. He then turned to Pierre and shook his hand:

"Well, I'm sorry to leave you like this Monsieur Pierre but I have to take be taking my leave."

"I understand Doctor," Pierre said with a disappointing smile, "you go make your good."

Watson nodded and left, completely forgetting to eat his breakfast.

Hudson came back in, saw Pierre and smiled, "Oh Mister Holmes, you didn't tell me you had a guest. Did Watson leave?"

"Yes he did. Our guest just walked in." Holmes replied.

Pierre walked over to her, smiled and shook her hand. "Bonjour Madame." he said politely.

Mrs. Hudson blushed a bit, "Ooh, a Frenchmen, how nice of you to drop in, are you one of Mister Holmes' clients?"

"I hope so." Pierre answered.

"The answer to that my good fellow is no, you are not. Nor will you ever will be unless you come up with work that is befit to my services."

"I understand Monsieur," Pierre said, "I shall just be taking my leave then." Pierre slowly walked out the door, as if it pained him to leave. He stopped in mid-stride and faced the door.

"François was killed this morning." The Archbishop said softly. He turned back around. "I don't want to change your mind, I respect your decision, frankly I wouldn't want to get involved either, but my friend is dead."

He turned and left the room without another word. Holmes and Hudson had breakfast. Watson walked up the stairs to the University of London. Pierre returned to his hotel which was located near Trafalgar Square, he got his room, removed his slippers, prayed, and then cried before taking much deserved sleep.

When Holmes was finished with his meal he thanked Mrs. Hudson, re-read Pierre's note and started a fire in the fireplace.

"Oh Mr. Holmes," Hudson said, noticing that Sherlock was building a fire, "it's summer time. There's no need for a fire."

"I am well aware of the temperatures outside Mrs. Hudson," Holmes said as he blew air into the chimney, lit a match and started a small fire. He then took Pierre's note, placed it there and watched it burn to a crisp.

"Why did you do that sir?" Hudson asked a bit confused as to why Holmes would burn a potential case.

"Because Mrs. Hudson," Holmes said, standing up and brushing himself clean, "there are some cases that do not need to be tampered with and that was one of them."

"What did the note say?" Hudson asked.

"There are also some things," Holmes said in a rather pompous way, "that do not need to be repeated."

* * *

><p><strong>This story is dedicated to Victor Hugo is inspired by a real cold case that happened during the 1880's as well as Hugo's novel <em>Notre-Dame de Paris<em> better known as "The Hunchback of Notre-Dame" which is my favorite novel of all time.**

**Vasily Kalinnikov (1866-1901) was a Russian composer best known for the second movement of his first Symphony. (Symphony No. 1 in G Minor, Movement 2 composed in 1894-95)****  
><strong>

**Note (for those die hard Holmes fans): This is set in 1899, the cold case was originally from the 1880's (I'm just changing the year to fit the cannon).**

**This was one of those cold cases where they don't know exactly what happened in terms of cause of death (but sucicide is the most common theory). Basically what happened was, the body of a dead woman was pulled from the Seine River. There was no evidence of violence but they suspected suicide. There was a scientist who was so captured by her beauty that he made a death mask of her face. The ID of this woman is unknown and the cause of death has not be confirmed (hence why it's a cold case).**

**I hope you've enjoyed the first chapter and look forward to more.**

**Please review! :)**

**-Nothing Really Specific**


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